


Unmasked

by Hana_Noiazei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1850s, Ballroom Dancing, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28027380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hana_Noiazei/pseuds/Hana_Noiazei
Summary: In which two nations sent asunder find each other again, spend a few moments together and separate once more.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway, Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuuago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuago/gifts).



“Look, Feliciano, the guests are entering. Should you not go down to greet them?”

Host of the ball and man of the house, Veneziano shrugs and takes another sip of his wine. He’s every inch the hedonistic merchant his city is known for housing, from his extravagant suit to his polished leather shoes. “They know full well that I am the host. Why should I have to show myself, then?”

Romano snorts over his own glass. It’s an expensive thing, rimmed with gold and carved with images of chiselled heroes. His brother has never been stingy when it comes to silverware. “Just admit you’re too scared of your fellow nations to talk to them.”

“Shut up.” He swirls his wine around in his intricate glass. “The servants are announcing everyone. Best be quiet.”

The two of them peer over the railing of the second storey, watching as the first group of guests enter the ballroom’s grand doors.

A servant stands at attention by the doors, holding out a small book. At the first man stepping through the doors, he proclaims, “presenting England of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, or Mister Arthur Kirkland.”

Romano takes a particularly large sip of wine, grumbling, “goodness, you invited him?”

“It would seem suspicious if I excluded simply Arthur.” Veneziano refills his glass. 

“Presenting the French Second Republic, or Mister Francis Bonnefoy.”

Shameless and stylish, France waltzes into the house without care nor manners, his night-blue gown outshining both brothers’ clothes by miles. He stands at the side and gives England a knife-edged smile. Knowing him, he is probably already tipsy. 

“Presenting the Kingdom of Hungary, or Miss Erzsébet Héderváry.”

“Well, she is the first of your guests whom I approve of,” Romano comments, nodding down at Hungary. Cascading over her emerald-green suit is her messy, untied chestnut hair, an eternal reminder that her wildness shall not be forsaken even in the ballroom. “For a moment I thought you had only invited the nations I would very much like to throw into the sun.” 

On and on, the guests enter, dressed in their best clothes and most forced smiles. It is a time of war, of strength and weakness, of growth and degeneration. But perhaps it can be thrown away for just a night in exchange for good food and music. Veneziano watches proudly, already on his second glass of wine. “Hard to believe this is only the first event of the night.”

“What, have you planned more?”

“Only two.” He passes a bonbon to Romano. “From now until ten o’clock, just a regular dance. Lovely music, lovely food, lovely people. But once it is eleven at night, all the guests shall change their garments, and take part in what my people are known best for.” Veneziano drains his glass. “We shall have a masquerade ball!”

“Where everyone knows each other but pretends not to,” he observes. “I predict that many a fistfight will happen.”

Veneziano shudders. “I do hope not.”

The next guests enter the ballroom, this time two nations with arms linked. The servant announces, “presenting the United Kingdoms of Sweden and Norway, or — ”

“Now there’s a nation I haven’t seen before.” Veneziano leans forward, peering at the duo. Norway is practically dwarfed by Sweden, a wisp of a nation hanging off his arm. He stares forward with far-off eyes, looking like a dark fairy with his slim-cut suit. “I believe they only came together thirty-six years ago!”

“Yes, and that was after a whole half-millennia of Denmark and Norway, too.” Romano gestures at the next guest — Denmark himself, with his flyaway sun-gold hair and radiant smile, nodding respectfully at his fellow nations. He walks with a limp. “The fellow got defeated quite awfully.”

The rest of the visitors finish their grand entrance, and the servant leaves. Romano stands up, softly setting his glass down. “I am going downstairs. I have not talked to Erzsébet for a while.”

“Suit yourself.” Veneziano remains seated, watching the scene beneath him. “I will wait until you come back.”

…

He is so close.

There is something particularly painful about being stood right next to one’s lover, who happens to be here as a guest of one’s best friend. Denmark’s hand itches to reach out and hold on to Norway’s, to entwine their fingers together like they did since they were young, to run his fingers over a union ring that no longer exists, but what little self-control he has forces him to stay still.

A new ring is on Norway’s finger now, one that Sweden uses to claim him. He does not blame Sweden for doing so, for he has done much worse to his friend before, but it hurts still, to see the love of his life standing stiffly next to him and being incapable of doing anything else.

The first of the guests are beginning to walk towards the middle of the ballroom. Here, in the house of immortals, the rules of society mean nothing. In his lovely dress, France beckons for Switzerland to dance with him, and Hungary and Prussia engage in a waltz that looks more like a tussle, both dressed in vibrant suits. Sweden leads Norway out to accompany him, neither of them speaking. Denmark is left alone.

Only one other nation is alone after a minute, austere Austria at the corner of the room, standing with his arms crossed. Well, he has no other choice. He must choose a partner before the others talk.

He approaches Austria. “Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

“Not up for dancing?” He asks.

Austria shakes his head. “I’m waiting for Erzsébet. She insisted on having a dance with Gilbert first.”

Denmark holds out his hand with his best smile. “Why don’t we pass the time together? It must be awfully dull to just wait.”

Grudgingly, he bows his head and allows Denmark to lead him to the middle of the ballroom.

They clasp their hands together and begin to dance awkwardly. Austria is quite obviously the better dancer, taking it in stride when Denmark’s leg aches and he accidentally steps on his foot. At the corner of his vision, Denmark can see Norway and Sweden behind them. When they slow down, he gets so close that he can see the exact shade of Norway’s eyes. Oh! He catches his gaze, stares into the silent plea in them, and longs to hold it for more than a few seconds.

The music continues. Denmark concentrates on his own dance, trying to ignore Norway even though he is so, so close. Maybe it is the tiny bit of wine he had before entering the ballroom, or merely how close they are together, but he cannot help the tears that spring to his eyes. Austria’s serious mask softens for a moment at the sight of it. When the dance ends, Denmark retreats to the side of the room to down a glass of wine and discreetly pull out his handkerchief.

It is impossible to tear his eyes away from Norway, sleek and elegant in his fine clothes, his tie the blue-black of the North Sea at night. He has always been the better dancer, movements fluid as he twirls with Sweden, almost as though he’s the one leading the dance. It was less than a century ago when Denmark was the one in his arms. 

Once in a while, as though Sweden weren’t there, Norway throws him a look, purses his lips as though preparing for a kiss. The glassiness in his eyes could be mistaken by most as a result of alcohol, but Denmark can see, plain and obvious, that they are tears.

Sweden leads his partner in two more dances before Norway murmurs in his ear to stop. They retreat to the side of the room again, just a few steps away from Denmark, and lapse into a quiet conversation. Norway’s lilted voice reaches his ears. He sounds like he’s singing, for his voice is most definitely sweet music to his ears. He takes another glass of wine and lets its rich astringence blur the burning ache in him.

He spends most of the next few moments staring into his wineglass, at his pathetic face tinted dark-red. For he enjoys bringing himself pain, Denmark peeks at Norway occasionally. He sees him fix Sweden’s suit, tuck a lock of his sand-gold hair behind his ear and adjust his spectacles. If only that could be him. No ill will to Sweden, of course, for war-hungry nations will do what they must, but he cannot help the pang in his heart.

Somebody laughs. Denmark turns and sees Spain doubled over in laughter, Romano slapping him on the back. France is smiling amusedly at his friends and nibbling delicately on a canapé. On his other side, Monaco is deep in conversation with one of Portugal’s many underlings. Even grumpy old England has managed to strike up a semblance of a conversation with the Netherlands. He is the only one alone in the room.

Sweden wraps his arm around his fellow nation, his hand settling on the small of Norway’s back. He leans closer to him and whispers something too soft for anyone else to hear. Denmark continues to stare, no longer caring if he gets caught. The warm light of the chandelier makes Norway look not as cold, his glacial skin awash with soft gold. His long eyelashes flutter. His soft lips are dyed dark and gleaming with wine.

It hurts. He drains his glass of wine and takes one more. If he drinks enough, maybe he will manage to forget him.

…

After three more glasses of wine and what could have been either five or fifteen hours, the host finally deigns to appear. Veneziano descends the stairs with a grin, delicately holding a black mask between his fingers. “Good evening, everyone!”

All on varying degrees of drunkenness, the guests murmur their greetings back. Denmark places his glass down and tries to wave. The ceiling is beginning to spin. 

“I see that you all are enjoying yourselves,” Veneziano continues. “But the night is not over just yet. Now, the servants will lead you to your dressing rooms, and you shall change into new clothes and don a mask. The rest of the night will be passed in a masquerade ball.”

Rows upon rows of attendants are already walking down the stairs, taking the nations away to change. Denmark stumbles after one of them, half-walking, half-falling into the first room he sees. He closes the door and leans against it while stars dance before his eyes. 

A suit jacket smacks him in the face.

“Goodness, what the Hell are you doing here?” Prussia retrieves his jacket and yanks him upright. “Where’s your dressing room?”

“Don’t need it,” he groans, letting his friend push him into a chair. “Didn’t bring another suit.”

Prussia ducks out of view to change. “Do you even _want_ to be here? Usually you’re the best-dressed one during events like this.”

Denmark presses his fingers to his temples and replies, “never wanted to show up. But you know how everyone else is, if I just stayed at home they would surely talk.”

“Never pegged you as the self-conscious type.”

“I’ve lost enough to be.”

“You only dissolved a union, my good fellow, that is hardly losing a lot.” He emerges again, dressed in a fresh new suit. “I have done so too many times to count, and I’m doing fine.”

He sighs.

“It wasn’t just the union, was it?”

He sighs again. To have broken a half-millennia-long union in a war he and Sweden weren’t even the main battlers in is humiliating enough as is.

“Enough with your sulking, you fool.” Prussia throws something at him. “You will come to the masquerade ball like everyone else, and since we’ll all be pretending not to know each other, you can don your stranger’s mask and dance with your Norway all you like.”

Denmark looks down. Resting on his lap is a sequined black mask, lined with gold brocade that glints and hurts his eyes. “I cannot take this,” he protests, even as he puts it on. “What will you wear then?”

“This is my extra one.” He grabs his arm and yanks him to his feet, dragging him from the dressing room. “You know I’m too proud to help in a way that would make me look bad, don’t you?”

He can only grunt in agreement as Prussia hauls him back to the ballroom, his head finally clearing. Most of the nations are there already, and some are giving each other sly glances through their masks. Denmark almost falls flat on his face when Prussia slaps him on the back in encouragement before joining his friends. 

Finally free from Sweden, Norway is standing alone. He has changed his clothes, now donning a suit coloured grey-blue as the stormy sky. His mask is black, too; it rests daintily on his fair face like a blot of ink upon paper. It conceals him just about as much as it makes him stand out; makes it glaringly obvious who he is. As he always does when he is nervous, he is fidgeting with his fingers.

Nobody else is around him. Denmark takes a deep breath and approaches him slowly, even though every muscle in his body is screaming at him to just run and bundle him into his arms. He stops at a respectful distance from Norway. Even from there, he can feel the heat pulsing from him. “Good evening, stranger,” he says.

Norway looks at him and inclines his head mutely.

“Lovely suit you have there.”

“Thank you.”

It takes all his willpower not to break down right then and there, at the sound of Norway speaking to him for the first time since their kingdom was no more; it has only been thirty-six years but it might well be thirty-six thousand even though neither of them has lived for so long. Trying to keep his voice steady, he continues, “care for a dance?”

He smiles. Norway steps forward and closes that unfamiliar distance between the two of them. He reaches out an expectant hand. “I would like nothing more.”

Denmark eagerly clasps his hand in his own, resting his other at his waist and leading him to the centre of the ballroom. His hand is warm, and his fingers press softly into the back of his hand. The two of them are most definitely too close together to dance properly, but the little space between them is perfect to bask in each other’s warmth. 

They dance — like the couples around them, all of them stealing this night to mend the seams of a torn-apart love, they dance. Norway only motions for them to stop after three pieces when their shoes are close to wearing through. But instead of returning to the side of the room, he brings Denmark through the wide doors on the other side of the ballroom to Veneziano’s garden.

The garden might look prettier in the daytime, with the sunlight catching the water bubbling from the fountain and bathing the hedge-mazes and flowerbeds in its radiant golden glow. But the moonlight that smiles down softly on the garden now adorns everything with a soft silver sheen and turns the entire place blessedly tranquil. Norway tugs Denmark to sit down at the fountain and places a hand on his shoulder. “I thoroughly enjoyed our dance together.”

“As did I.”

He cups Denmark’s cheek, and a wave of heat rushes through him. The touch is downright intoxicating, so heartfelt and tender that he nearly bursts into tears on the spot. Norway brushes his cheekbone with his thumb, bumping against the mask. “Forgive me, but in return for deigning to dance with you, I would like to request something from you.”

“Ah,” he says, “so you had an ulterior motive. I should have known that somebody like you would not dance with me simply for the sake of dancing.” Denmark leans into his welcome touch. “What is it you want, stranger?”

“For us to be strangers no longer.” He tugs at the corner of the mask. “Let me see your face in its entirety. Tell me your name.”

Norway’s touch is driving him mad. He closes his eyes, and, with a trembling hand, unties his mask and sets it down beside him. Face uncovered, he smiles and proclaims, “you know me as the Kingdom of Denmark.”

The dam breaks. Neither are able to hold it back much longer. Norway tears his mask off, shredding its delicate ribbons, and flings it away. “I have missed you so,” he breathes. He clambers into his lap and kisses him.

Denmark’s heart flurries in a mad staccato, and he nearly falls backwards into the water in surprise. Heat pulses through him. Norway’s arms wind around his neck, fingertips digging bruisingly into his skin, and he draws him in closer still. The little space between them chokes in their fever when Norway tilts his head to deepen the kiss, entwining the two of them together in a mad dance of tongue and teeth. Denmark groans into his mouth.

The thought of patience, of going through this slowly is all but dispelled when Norway fumbles with his tie, unties it and sets it aside, then gets to work freeing him from the rest of his elaborate suit. He trembles, every brush of his thin fingers bringing trails of fire on his bare skin. They continue to kiss, only pulling away once Norway has succeeded in unbuttoning his shirt. He pushes the sleeve down and is about to bestow his shoulder with a kiss when he sees it.

“They haven’t faded.”

With a bitter smile, Denmark touches the burns marring his right shoulder and part of his chest. “They will soon,” he assures. “I am recovering, and they don’t even hurt.”

“I have heard.” His passionate attack on his body has been delayed for now, and Norway sits down beside him. He entwines their fingers together again. “Is it true, that you are going through a Golden Age of your own?”

“It’s true.” Denmark lifts his hand to his lips and kisses each knuckle. “Art, literature, science and everything imaginable is reaching its peak. I wish you were there to see it.” He smiles, mostly to himself. “The best and brightest of my people are helping me heal.”

With a soft sigh, Norway gingerly touches his burn, the remnant of a destructive fire that raged through his very heart for the third time. To his surprise, he leans down to press his lips against it. He rests his head on his shoulder, hair tickling his shoulder. “You have no idea how long I have wanted to be with you. I thought I would cry when I saw you walk into the ballroom.”

Shivering, he pulls his shirt back on and turns to kiss the crown of Norway’s head. He smells just as he remembers, of freshly-brewed coffee and the dried heather he keeps in between his folded clothes. “That makes two of us, then,” Denmark says. “The thirty-six years we’ve been apart for so far felt quite a bit longer.”

“I’m just happy we had a chance to see each other again.” He snuggles closer into his side. “If only we could have sent each other letters.”

Desperately, for Norway cannot know, Denmark tries to expel the thoughts of the letters he did write from his mind. They are stored at the very bottom of his lowest desk drawer, squashed under bottles of ink and full notebooks he is too sentimental to throw away. “ _My dearest Nor_ ,” each one of them begins with, and ends, ever so lovingly, “ _though we are apart, do not forget that through war and through peace, through riches and poverty, through joy and through sorrow and through all that the world puts us through, I will remain, and this is all I will remain, your Danmark_.” Norway cannot know that he has been so pathetic now that they are no longer together.

“We could not send each other any, but I wrote them nonetheless,” Norway surprises them both by saying. “Like I always did when you left for trade or battle, I addressed you as ‘ _my beloved Dan_ ’. Can you guess how I ended them?”

He can memorise the closing paragraph of his lover’s letters word for word. “ _Remember always, my sweet fool_ ,” he recites, “ _that as long as my heart beats and this accursed earth continues to turn on its axis I will be, forever and ever until we both cease to exist, your Norge._ ”

“Correct.” He squeezes his hand. “You even remembered the ‘fool’.”

“It’s one of your favourite things to call me,” Denmark teases. “How could I ever forget? I called you ‘dearest’ and ‘my love’, and you called me ‘fool’ and ‘oaf’.”

“Well, you are my dearest fool.” Norway sweeps his thumb over the back of his hand. “And do not use ‘called’. We will be together again soon.”

How wistful he sounds; how hopeful. It is almost foolish to think that a nation drunk on power would want to let go of their most prized partner after only a few decades. For Sweden is much like Denmark, with his desire to hold on to waning strength, and as he kept Norway for five hundred years, the Lion of the North will surely do the same. But he does not say any of this. He only gives Norway another kiss.

The clock chimes, signalling the end of another hour. How many they have left, Denmark does not know. 

Norway stands up, gently setting his mask down at the fountain. He approaches a bush, its dark-jade leaves reflecting the moonlight ever so slightly, and touches it slightly. Then he bends down and examines the clump of flowers right below the bush. Denmark averts his eyes, trying not to look at the outline of his lover’s legs from beneath his tight pants. He has always had the legs of a dancer, slim and lithe yet stronger than one may expect. Many a time has he seen those legs kicking through turbulent waters, spinning on a candle-lit stage, wrapped around his hips or perhaps spread apart —

He dips his hand into the cold fountain water to shock him out of his thoughts. Norway returns, holding a pair of creamy-white flowers in his hand. Their petals droop as though in mourning. “Snowdrops,” he supplies.

He cups his chin and lifts his head up to weave one of the blossoms into his hair. “I heard from England that every flower has a meaning behind it. The message that these bring is that of hope.”

“Hope,” Denmark echoes. They need not explain more.

Norway sits back down, this time on his lap. He wraps his arms around him to keep him from falling off. He lifts his hand to his lips and kisses each fingertip, then presses it to his heart. “Do you remember,” he murmurs, “all the nights we spent sitting like this?”

“I could never forget.” He squeezes his waist with his other arm, wanting to feel as much of his warmth as he can. “Though with how you say that, I would think that you were nostalgic.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Nostalgic enough to recall all that we did?”

“Perhaps I am,” Norway says again. He shifts around so that his knees dig into Denmark’s hips, but his hand is still pressed over the butterfly’s flutter of his heart. Or it might be too insulting to call it something as delicate as a butterfly, for they both know that Norway’s heart beats so resiliently it resembles that of a mighty eagle. He presses Denmark’s hand harder, so that he can feel the heat of his skin, and guides him to unbutton his shirt.

They spend much of the rest of the night remembering. By the time their memories have been thoroughly refreshed, the ball is almost set to be over. The other nations are bidding their farewells in the ballroom, and soon Sweden will be about looking for his partner. Neither of them knows when they will see each other again.

“I will miss you,” Denmark whispers against the curve of his collarbone. He is helping Norway dress, lest somebody walk in on them in their dishevelled, debauched state. 

Norway’s eyes are still slightly glazed over with desire, and he slips his coat on just as easily as he slipped it off timeless moments ago. He smiles gently with kiss-bitten lips, and says, “I will too.” 

“I promise I’ll take care of your brother.”

He starts. “I hate to admit I nearly forgot about him. How is Iceland doing?”

_He cried himself to sleep every night the first year after you left_ , Denmark almost replies. But he stops himself, and says instead, “he is growing like a weed and eating me out of house and home. In fact, he’s almost reached my shoulder now.”

“Tell him I say hello, won’t you?” He buttons his coat and straightens his tie. If one does not look closely, they would never know that love-bites of pink and red peek out from beneath his high collar. “I cannot wait to see Ice again.”

Reluctantly, the two of them return to the ballroom. Norway leans close to Denmark, who hovers his hand over his back, in the exact spot he saw Sweden put his large palm a few hours ago. The light of the ballroom is almost blinding after spending so much time in the dark.

Pretty much all the nations are drunk, on their umpteenth glasses of wine. Some of the more shameless nations, namely France, are partially undressed. But to Denmark’s relief, none of them are fully denuded, which can be considered a miracle. None of the nations look as though they have been in a brawl, either. Another rarity — both fists and articles of clothing have flown during balls before.

Sweden approaches them, expression betraying nothing. Once he is close enough, he extends his hand. With a brief glance back at Denmark, eyes flashing for a split second with unbridled longing, Norway leaves his side to walk away from him. He takes Sweden’s hand and brushes his lips over him, then goes to stand beside him.

The brief hours where Norway was his are over. Denmark nods at his old rival and tries to smile. “Sweden.”

“Denmark.”

“Good to see you again,” he says, and hopes he sounds amicable. “I hope you are well.”

“Likewise.” Sweden looks at him with that familiar, piercing glare, but there is no malice in his gaze. 

“I will be leaving soon,” he continues, even though he really should go. “Just need to get my things.”

“Have a safe journey.”

He goes to the cloakroom to retrieve his hat and cloak, then spends a few minutes just dawdling in the mansion’s grand foyer. He can see a bit of the ballroom from where he is standing, where a few loitering nations are saying their goodbyes. Walking out of the room, clinging to each other, are Sweden and Norway.

He does not look at Sweden the same way he looks at him, with those huge periwinkle eyes filled with adoration thinly veiled behind derision. He looks at Sweden with a guarded gaze, smiles at him with a gentle curve of his lips that never reaches his eyes. Denmark longs to run back to the ballroom, just to see Norway’s icy mask melt to nothing. But he cannot.

Perhaps he will be able to see Norway again soon, and love him so publicly that all the world knows how much he means to him. That day could be one hundred days or one hundred years later.

Whenever it comes, Denmark knows that he will wait all of eternity for that day.


End file.
